A Kingdom Of Ashes
by Freakin Vioo
Summary: SPOILERS: AFTER BOOK5 OF ASOIAF! The game of thrones goes on in Westeros, but the players aren't the same anymore. Following the steps of their parents and kins, the children of the Seven Kingdoms are most determined to claim their legacy.
1. Chapter 1 : The Lady of Winterfell

THE LADY OF WINTERFELL

Sansa stopped her white mare atop one of the numerous hills that surrounded Winterfell. Down below stretched the King's Road, twisting like a muddy snake through immaculate snow. A few leagues away rose the massive grey walls of the castle, and beyond them the broken roofs of its towers. Somewhere in between, she knew there would be the godswood and the huge weirwood, red leaves leaning idly above the hot pools. Remembering all those details made her heart bounce in her chest. She was coming home, finally.

Mya Stone fell in beside her, pulling on the reins of her big grey garron. Her cheeks were red from the biting cold and white mist rose as she breathed. «So there we are eventually... A fair sight if you ask me, but I'd rather stretch my legs near a big fire to get that bloody cold away! How long since we haven't stop to rest?» Sansa smiled. For one brief moment, as she was savoring the taste of home, she had nearly forgotten the stiff in the small of her back. But Mya would always be there to remind her of such trivial details. Her childhood in the Vale as a baseborn girl had taught her of the priorities of life — lessons Sansa had lacked growing amongst septas and dutiful daughters of her father's bannermen. Things had changed, however. As deep as she dared to look into herself, she found no trace of the fair maid that had once left Winterfell dreaming of sunny days and charming knights. The Lannisters had taken care of it. She bit her lip as the memory of Ned came back to her. Loosing him had been a weakness then, but she had turned it into her strength. She had spent endless nights figuring how he would behave, what he would have her do. Somehow Petyr had tried to change this, subtly turning her into her mother so he could achieve on her what he had failed on Lady Catelyn. She had become Alayne Stone for him who claimed to be her savior. But all this had come to an end. Littlefinger was not anymore, and she was Sansa Stark, the one true heir of Winterfell.

Glancing behind her shoulder to the rest of the fellowship — three of Mya's closest friends, every one of them mounted on a horse and leading a mule — she told the bastard girl:

«You are right, it is past time we arrived. Our stocks of food are getting so empty those mules seem to be able to run as fast as my mare.»

«I'm actually more concerned about the cold than the food, Sansa.» Mya and Alayne had become so close that she had not been able to call her my lady once she had revealed her true identity, and Sansa didn't mind. It had been too long since someone had called her by her true name. «I'm pretty sure there's plenty o' food in those northern woods of yours. At least for someone who knows where to search.»

Mya's self-confidence was always comforting, and once again Sansa allowed herself to smile. There would be time for the grieving soon enough, so it was more than fair for her to enjoy these moments.

She twisted on her saddle and waved her arm toward Winterfell for the men behind her to follow, then spurred her mare. The horse rushed forward, Mya and her grey garron jumping after her in a big cloud of hoof-crushed snow.

The castle turned up to be much different than the one Sansa had left several years ago. Although Stannis Baratheon — and Roose Bolton before him — had been eager to rebuild, most of the buildings looked more like blackened shells stuck into a muddy ground. A few houses still lingered outside the outer wall where hundreds once stood, half-hidden under several feet of compact snow. Some could only be noticed by a bit of their straw roof and grey smoke swirling up into the air. Further on, they came upon the camp: thousands of tents lined up in strict rows, with graveled alleys and innumerable braziers. Sansa and Mya slowed their horses to a pace. All around them men turned to stare at those women in boiled leather and armor, some muttering and spatting, some laughing through crocked teeth. Sansa glanced at her friend: her tension was palpable, and it was all she could do not to unsheathe her dagger.

«Most of them are southern men, too far from home» she said, pointing the pronged banners over the tents, «it must have been a long time since they last saw a woman. Try and stay calm, and they won't not harm us.»

Mya nodded, but somehow Sansa doubted her words had appeased her.

As they reached the outer wall, the tents became larger, with furs and pelts to keep the cold at bay. Other banners flew under the flamed heart and stag of Stannis, some of them she knew for bearing northern sigils. Flint, Norrey, Wull, Mormont and Glover, even Manderly. The sight of so many of her father's bannermen gathered around Winterfell made her feel quite safe. Obviously they had not forgotten their allegiance to House Stark.

Her heart bouncing hard inside her chest, Sansa followed the road to the drawbridge, Mya falling in beside her. Someone shouted a word from atop the wall, and slowly the drawbridge went down in an impressive sound of rattling chains. As they crossed the frozen moat, iron-footed hooves slamming against hard wood, Sansa stared at her beloved castle. It had seldom changed, except for the black tongues creeping along the walls that the fire had left after the sack, and some half-collapsed buildings that still needed to be fixed. They dismounted into the yard, and a young boy with a dirty face and two awkward m'ladies rushed out of nowhere to take care of their horses.

A pair of guards were waiting at the entrance of the great hall, nearly hidden under heavy fur coats. They looked at the women with suspicious eyes until one noticed the wolf-shaped brooch on Sansa's cloak. «We're sorry Lady Stark, we weren't expecting you so soon» he muttered, red creeping on his neck. «Stannis will be inside, waiting for you. He wouldn't stay outside, oh no, it's too bloody cold!» Sansa smiled. The northmen's allegiance was indeed to the Starks, no matter how hard Stannis tried to make them bend the knee.

The heavy doors of the great hall opened for the two women to step forward. Several hearths shone along the walls, fire burning brightly to keep both cold and darkness at bay. Upon the dais were the chairs of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, massive pieces of oak with backs carved in the shape of wolves and weirwoods. Sansa had expected Stannis to receive her seated in one of them, but she found them empty instead. She could not say she was not surprised. Had she been wrong about him? Could he possibly give up his claims upon Winterfell knowing that there were more that just one Stark still alive?

As Sansa and Mya were waiting in silence, warming their hands over the blooming fire, steps echoed behind the dais. A door opened, and a score of guards spread around the oaken chairs, every single one of them wearing the fiery heart and stag embroidered upon their doublet. Then came Stannis Baratheon: all clad in black wool and boiled leather, the king walked past the dais towards Sansa at a quick and determined pace. He stopped a few feet before her, and nodded.

«Lady Stark.»

His voice cut through the silence of the great hall, as sharp as honed steel. Sansa could not help but remember something she had been told once: a sword without a hilt. Nothing fit Stannis better than this. He was not an ugly man, but there was nothing in him as attractive as in Renly, or even Robert in his young years. He was nearly bald, and had a severe look about him, with tight lips and a constant wrinkle across his brow, but his eyes were an amazing blue, as deep and dark as a stormy sea. No doubt Dragonstone was a perfect place for him to set up this realm.

«Lord Stannis.»

Sansa's voice sounded very respectful but was not any warmer than his had been. She bowed a little deeper, though. Her honor would not be harmed by another bow. She had been bending the knee before so many kings and lords she could not count them all... The time when they would all bow for her was close, however. That made her heart bounce inside her chest.

«Our journey has been a long one, my lord. I hope you would understand that we allow ourselves a little rest before joining you. Although I had wished to see my brother, —»

Quick steps echoed from behind the dais, and suddenly all the fiery-hearted guards stepped aside to let the late arrival through. Sansa opened her mouth but found nothing to say, so she opened her arms instead.

Rickon smiled and rushed to hug his elder sister. He has grown so much, she thought. How long since she had last seen him? Both of them had lived so many things, with half a world in between, she felt as if she barely knew him, the boy he had become. Sansa stroked his tangled dark hair. She lifted his chin so she could look upon his face. He had some of Ned's features, but his eyes were definitely their lady mother's. Memories came rushing inside her head, and she felt nostalgic of the peaceful childhood she had spent inside those very walls. Rickon seemed to read the sadness in her eyes, so he squeezed her hands between his. His smile was telling her to be strong, at least just for a little longer. She could not appear frail in front of Stannis Baratheon. Not now. Winterfell's future was up to this very moment.

As if to remind them about it, Stannis cleared his throat. Sansa and Rickon let go of each other's hands.

«Now that you have seen your brother, maybe we could discuss those terms you talked about in your letter, Lady Stark.» Before she could ask again for a little rest, he went on «I am aware of the weariness of such a journey across the North, but I think you will understand that such matters cannot be reported any longer.»

Sansa tightened her jaws. Her eyes met Mya's. The Vale girl had remained silent all along but the look on her face meant otherwise. «As you will, my lord.»

They went past the door behind the dais, through a dim-lit gallery Sansa had walked a thousand times. Up they went, until they reached a solar: the furnishings had been changed, obviously after the sack of Winterfell, but there were few of them — a massive oaken desk with six chairs, a small table covered with books and one tallow candle, a brazier full of ashes and embers. There were no decorations, only plain wood, bronze and rock. So much different from the room Sansa had known, with pelts and furs on the ground to keep the cold at bay, but pretty much like Stannis indeed. He sat down and gestured at them to do as well. Only Stannis, Rickon, Sansa and Mya remained in the solar.

«We all thought you were dead, Lady Stark» Stannis said. Well, she thought, he is frank, that much I can grant him. «I will not lie to you, but there are many plans, plans that were made with the help of your bastard brother for some of them, that will have to be changed because of those new tidings.»

«What plans, if I may ask?»

Stannis grinned his teeth. «I lost half an army staggering through storm and snow to conquer Winterfell, smashing Boltons and Freys to save a girl who pretended to be your sister, only to find out she had vanished with some wildlings. They made for the Wall, as I learned after, but Lord Snow felt quite disappointed when he saw that it was not the right girl...»

Sansa felt a stab of pain through her heart thinking about her sister. Where in the world are you hiding, Arya? I know you are still alive, come home, it is safe now. Come back, please.

«No more enemies in Winterfell so I settled in» he went on, «but there is a greater enemy beyond the Wall. I had the allegiance of numerous northmen...» So wrong, she thought. «Until my Hand, Lord Seaworth, came back from the dead with your little brother. That changed a few things, but I found a way: arrange a marriage between Rickon and my daughter Shireen. However they are still very young so I had hoped to rule until they come of age. But I guess you have other plans in mind.»

Sansa leaned back in her chair. «You are right, my lord. These are my terms: I might be a woman, but I intend to rule Winterfell, and the North, by myself.» That take Stannis aback. He opened his mouth but she went on before he could interrupt her. «You made the northerners bend the knee, but they will raise again once there is a Stark to lead them. I do not deny your right to sit the Iron Throne, as my lord father died defending it. However the North will from now on be an independent kingdom, freed from the King's yoke.»

She could see the anger boiling inside him, but he remained as still as stone. «How am I to win back my throne without men? I need the North to defeat the enemies who gather beyond the Wall, as I will need it to get rid of the Lannisters.»

«I was not finished, my lord.» Her voice stayed calm. «I propose an alliance, regarding the help you provided House Stark. The North, lead by myself, will help you against your enemies, as they are common foes. But you must agree that once the peace is won you will leave Winterfell and give up all intention to rule here. I had heard you have another seat in the south, back in Storm's End...»

He obviously did not like that. His jaws tightened and he snapped: «Storm's End has been lost to Connington and his sellswords. Dragonstone has been lost as well, to the Tyrells and Lannisters. They all waited for me to be on the Wall to strike, leading their armies of cowards against what few host I had left behind. So do not talk to me about flying back to a place that is no longer mine.»

Sansa had hit him where it hurt most. Silence fell upon them, not even disrupted by sounds coming from outside. After a moment she spoke: «I was told that the Night's Watch had a castle ready to welcome you and your men. The Nightfort, is it? You will go there, and I promise that the North will help you win back Dragonstone, and Storm's End, and whatever land was stolen from you. I sincerely have no love for the Lannisters, —»

«Though you married one.»

That hurt. Sansa bit her lip. «Though I was forced to marry one, indeed. But gods know where Lord Tyrion is now, therefore I consider myself a widow.» Her voice was cold as ice. «We are not alone in this fight, though.» She turned to Mya. «The Vale will support us.»

Stannis frowned. He stared at the bastard girl. «And you are the herald of the Vale, if I may ask?» Sansa could not help but smile. «I had hoped that you would recognize your niece, my lord. This is Mya Stone, one of your late brother's children.»

The King was taken aback. «A bastard...»

«Yet a trueborn daughter, unlike Tommen Lannister.»

He grinned his teeth once again. After a moment of silence, he said: «I thought the Vale was controlled by Littlefinger.»

«Littlefinger is dead.» replied Sansa with tight lips. Memories came flashing inside her head. The arrow through brave Ser Dontos, their first kiss in the Eyrie with snowflakes swirling around them, the night he had asked her to sleep in his bed, his face when he had confessed that he had betrayed his father in King's Landing. And then the distress in his eyes when he understood that she had been poisoning him for nigh a moon turn. She would not have to see those mocking eyes anymore.

«The Vale never belonged to Petyr Baelish» Mya said, «nor do we belong to the Iron Throne now that the boy king has no legitimacy to it.»

Stannis did not seem convinced so Sansa added: «You have our word, but some say that words are wind. So we mean to seal this alliance with a marriage. Jon Arryn's son, Robert, is the rightful lord of the Eyrie. If he were to marry Shireen, House Baratheon would gain numerous allies, as well as thousands of soldiers to help us defeat our enemies.»

She had won Stannis' attention. He was obviously weighing wether or not to accept her terms. She had doubted he would agree to allow the North as an independent kingdom, but the support of the Vale was an offer he could not refuse. One thing was amiss, though, but it did not concern Lord Baratheon: since she had spoken of marrying Shireen to Robert Arryn, Rickon seemed different. She slipped a hand on his knee but he moved out of her reach. He turned his eyes toward the extinguished embers in the brazier, biting his lower lip. Sansa didn't understand. Was it possible that Rickon had feelings for his betrothed? Was she ruining everything between the two of them? She was about to tell Stannis that they would resume on the morrow to allow him some time to think when he nodded: «I agree to your terms, Lady Stark, though some of them I do not consider fair. But was there ever something fair in the game of thrones? I shall move to the Nightfort within ten days, leading my army and the northmen you will have acknowledged of our alliance. You understand that I cannot let you command an army into battle, I hope. Once the enemy beyond the Wall is defeated, we will ride south to march upon the Lannisters and their allies, with the support of the Vale. When I seat the Iron Throne, the North will be free to become a proper kingdom, with you as their queen if that is their wish. However you will be the one to send a raven to the Eyrie, letting them know of the betrothal.» He paused for a few instants. «Are we done, Lady Stark?»

Sansa breathed deeply. Was she doing the right thing? She felt it was what was needed, for the North as well as the rest of the kingdom. Her father would have approved of this alliance. But what about Rickon?

«Yes we are, my lord.»

Thousands of lives against one love. Break two young hearts or condemn thousands to death. She had no choice but this one.

After Stannis gave them his leave to go, Rickon rushed down the tower to the godswood. Sansa left Mya where she was and run after her brother. Outside snow was falling once again, light snowflakes charging the air. She crossed the yard to the armory and entered the godswood from there, remembering hidden ways she used to take as a child. Too many memories.

It was never really cold under the high trees. Warm air rose from the hot pools, so only a thin coat of ice covered the ground. Silence filled the wood, only disrupted by thumps of snow falling from charged branches, or the caws of crows in the big white tree. Sansa felt her heart bounce in her chest when she laid eyes upon the carved face inside its trunk, red tears running down its cheeks. How long since she had last seen a weirwood? She almost felt a stranger now, having lived in the south for so many years. Would the old gods still hear her prayers at night? Were they judging her at this very moment, weighing wether she had acted honorably or foolishly?

It frightened her so she turned away from the bloody eyes. As she went around the tree, she glimpsed a huge black shadow between the trees. She almost lost her balance, but managed to catch a lower branch before falling in the snow.

When she turned back, the direwolf was behind her. Sansa tried to scream but no sound came out of her opened mouth, only white mist filling the air. Two big golden eyes were staring at her through the mist, two suns amongst the sea of darkness that was his fur. His warm breath blew over her face, raising gooseprickles on her arms. She dared not move, fearing the reaction of the beast.

«It's alright Shaggydog. To me.»

Rickon's voice seemed to appease the direwolf, and he turned away from Sansa as if nothing had happened. He muzzled his nose in the boy's hand, but he could well have touched his cheek being so huge. Sansa made a step forward.

«I am so sorry, Rickon. I didn't know about you and Shireen, perhaps I could have —»

«How could you know?» The pain was plain on his face. «I could have agreed not to marry her, but it isn't just about me. You are condemning her to a life full of sorrow wedding her to this half-wit. Don't you think she has suffered enough already?» Sansa tried to say something, but he would not let her talk. «Her mother despised her because of the greyscale, the times when her father laid eyes upon her can be counted on your hands. The only friend she had until now was a fool. But I love her. No matter how much her face is ravaged by the disease. I love her, but you ruined everything.»

There were tears filling his eyes but his pride would not let them flow. Sansa felt as if she had been stabbed in her heart. She had not known, but could he understand that much? All she had done she had done for Winterfell and for the Starks. For the good of our House, no matter the cost each of us has to pay. But love had its reasons, and Rickon would not hear otherwise. Time would heal his wounds, but memories were forever painful.

«Rickon, trust me, I understand how much you love her, but —»

«No you don't» he said with a cold voice, «the only love you understand is the one shared by fair maids and charming knights. You love beauty, not soul.»

He turned away before she could see the tears running down his cheeks, and rushed through the trees with Shaggydog on his heels.

You're wrong about me, Rickon, so wrong. She had loved a tormented soul with a ravaged face. She thought about the kiss he had given her. She had loved him, but he was dead.


	2. Chapter 2 : The Conqueror

Hi guys! Sorry I kept you waiting for the second chapter, but here it is eventually! I do hope you will enjoy it, feel free to leave reviews if you have anything to say. Please, if you have an FF account, review with it so I can answer you directly, it is much simpler (: I'd like to apologize for chapter 1, which was quite plain, but I had a problem with the italics... This one should be easier to read — maybe not, I don't know, so tell me!

About chapter 2 itself, I found it quite hard to write through Aegon's point of view, as Martin described him through Jon Connington's. I hope you will understand the choices I made, as I made with Sansa in chapter 1. Hope you'll enjoy it!

THE CONQUEROR

«How much longer will I have to wait?» Aegon asked. Only silence greeted his question. Jon Connington remained quiet, standing on the threshold of his chambers. The boy wondered wether he had no real answer for him or did not want to tell it was still too early. Did it matter, anyway? Aegon knew he would have to go on hiding from the rest of the world while Jon and the Golden Company were winning battles. It felt so strange: weren't they supposed to fight in his name? He had been the one to turn them toward Westeros when the only thing Jon had in mind was Meereen...and Daenerys.

_I am no beggar_. Aegon thought about Tyrion, and wondered what the dwarf had become. Somehow he knew he was still alive — dwarf luck, it seemed — but where was he? The boy would have needed Tyrion's counsels right now. But the only person he could speak to was Jon, and the griffin was far too stubborn for a proper argument. Aegon already knew what the knight would say when he ask about revealing his true identity, or at least just be allowed to follow him into battle: «Too dangerous.» _But what kind of man will I become if I have never fought? Will anyone want to swear allegiance to a green boy?_

Aegon sighed. He looked over his shoulder to the door, but Jon had vanished. Even when they were still Griff and Young Griff, there had been no real talk between the two of them. Aegon had grown accustomed to it: the knight was one of the best with a sword, but he found words much harder to handle. So the boy had learned to keep his questions for himself, or seek Lemore for answers. Lemore had always been there for him. Though she was a queer septa, she was the closest thing to a mother he had ever had. Her words were wise and comforting, and she understood him. Aegon wondered what kind of past was hers, but she would always avoid talking about it so he knew better than to insist.

Suddenly the warmth of the chambers was more than he could bear. Crossing the room with long steps, he went to the window and pushed the shutters wide open. Light and wind along rushed in more violently than he had expected. Putting a hand over his brow to allow his eyes to adapt to such brightness, he leaned upon the window. The sky was heavy with huge white clouds, promising snow for the days to come. Aegon felt thrilled: he had never seen snow. He had asked Lemore and Duck about it: how big were snowflakes? did snow have a taste? Somehow he felt stupid asking all those questions, but his curiosity was never quenched. There was no place in Essos where the weather could be _that_ cold, at least where they had been with Jon. All he had ever experienced was crushing sun, constant dampness and pouring rain. But this was completely different: he could never have guessed how it felt to be clenched into the freezing fist of the wind, or how delightful a warm fire could be after a day out in the cold. And there was no better place for this than Storm's End.

From his window, Aegon could see the whole camp beneath the castle. There were thousands of tents, all of them lined up in rows and separated by graveled alleys. A moat had been dug all around, and as if it was not enough, stakes had been raised across it. It had not been easy, as there was no nearby forest: the stormlands were only hills and stone cliffs beaten by a constant wind rushing from the sea. But as Harry Strickland had insisted, a hundred men had left with what remained of boats and elephants to seek for wood in the nearby forests. Aegon wondered if they had left any forest behind them, regarding of the innumerable stakes that surrounded the camp...But at least Homeless Harry had stopped asking about more defense, so it felt worthy.

Amongst all the men of the Golden Company the boy had met, the captain-general was the one he liked less. Maybe he had been influenced by Jon, who appreciated the man no more than he did, but Harry Strickland seemed far too cautious for a leader of such a company. He had it for him that his caution had kept him alive for many years, but Aegon thought of him as a coward more than anything. He had learnt that the man's favorite word was _wait_, and that was something neither him or Jon could do. Surely because they had been waiting for sixteen years... Now was the time to act.

The rest of the day went by, but not with the least sign of sun peering through the clouds. Night fell upon Storm's End, along with the evening wind coming from the sea: it was an even stronger one, damp and heavy with the smell of salt. It rushed inside the castle walls, howling like a hundred ghosts and blowing every single candle. From the camp rose the sound of thousands of banners flapping noisily. Men gathered around what little fire they managed to feed, clothed in layers of fur to keep both cold and dampness at bay. Aegon himself donned a thick doublet of black wool showing a three-headed dragon. He felt pride fill him as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The blue dye he had been using for years to conceal his silvery hair was entirely gone by now, and without the crushing sun of the Rhoyne, his skin had become almost bone-white. It seemed as if his eyes had also turned more purple, once rid of the heavy mass of blue hair upon his brow. The prince smiled. No one could deny him being a Targaryen.

A big fire burned inside the hearth inside the great hall, smoke rising toward the darkened roof. Trestles had been raised but the benches were empty, except from those upon the dais where Jon Connington and the captains of the Golden Company were having dinner. Aegon noticed the lord-chair had remained free, the black-and-gold cushion on it untouched. He stared at the griffin, not entirely sure the place was meant for him, until the knight waved a hand towards it. That gave him confidence, so he sat. _Aegon VI Targaryen, Lord of Storm's End_, he thought, a thin smile spreading across his lips. But instantly a voice inside his head corrected: _King of the Seven Kingdoms_. Strange how it sounded exactly like Jon... The smile faded, replaced by a clench of jaws. King of the Seven Kingdoms, he repeated mentally. How could he possibly feel content with one castle, lost in the middle of an inhospitable land? He had to keep in mind that he was the one true heir to the Iron Throne. He was the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen, even more legitimate than Viserys had been as children went before brothers. His was the blood of the dragon.

But would he be able to stand proudly under such a heavy burden?

«My prince?»

Aegon emerged from his tormented thoughts and turned to face Jon. The griffin seemed to notice the sprinkles of distress in his purples eyes, and frowned as if asking if something was amiss. As the boy managed to produce a smile, the knight went on:

«I believe it is time for us to decide which way to choose.» His voice was deep and solemn, a voice to fade laughter in the happiest minds. «We won Storm's End when it was known to be impregnable. We shook Stannis where he thought he would be safe. Victory walks with us, and I say we act before she decides to leave. Where will we strike next?»

A score voices bursted around the table, each man talking to the ones next to him. Aegon heard the words sellswords loved most, _battle_, _victory_, _blood_, _gold_, along with hundred names of cities great and small. Some said Summerhall had to be next, for it had once been a Targaryen castle; others argued about Blackhaven, bolder ones about Ashford. The great hall had become a giant hive, with what seemed a thousand voices echoing on the walls, until Jon cut through with his impressive voice. «Enough.» he said, and every single sound faded. Aegon could not help but admire such presence. All turned to listen to the griffin.

«I can understand how eager you are to return to the battlefield. But we have not come back all this way to fight and plunder until a rich house decides to hire the company. What we are about to do is completely different: we will raise a king.» With those words, Jon stared right into Aegon's eyes. The boy felt his heart bounce in his chest as growls of approval rose amongst the sellswords. «The stormlands were just the beginning. As we speak, the Lannisters are losing the Iron Throne: soon the Usurper's Queen will be sent on trial to answer for her crimes, and I received words that the Kingslayer was nowhere to be found. Once they fall, Stannis will be too weak to rush to King's Landing, leaving only the Tyrells in the capital.»

Homeless Harry cleared his throat: «But what about the boy king? He might be the fruit of some disgusting incest but I doubt the Tyrells will abandon him. Knowing he is married to the rose's daughter, they would not give up a chance to rule the Seven Kingdoms in their stead...»

_Feeble Harry Strickland_, thought Aegon. The captain-general would sooner have them all back to Essos, hired by some wealthy triarch in Volantis, he knew. Or maybe he considered that too dangerous as well.

«The Tyrells will surely want to rule, but without the Lannister boy.» The self-confidence in the griffin's voice left no choice for Strickland but to stop talking. «They will sit the Iron Throne, until they are forced to leave it or let Highgarden be taken.»

All around the table men exchanged confused looks. Aegon knew none of them would dare speak against Connington, fearing they might seem craven. But attacking the major city of the Reach was hazardous: House Tyrell had numerous allies, fierce and loyal bannermen who would not hesitate to raise arms to defend their lich lord — and they were ten thousands sellswords. The prince found himself thinking about how many men from the Golden Company would turn their cloak if defeat was upon them. The uncertainty frightened him, so he tried to focus on something else.

But what? His whole life was being planned right now, and hardly had a word to say about it. He had thought about taking other cities in the Reach, though never Highgarden. It seemed to him that all this was about killing time until Daenerys eventually came back to Westeros, but they had been waiting for months already... Aegon had learned about her disappearance, and often wondered where she was. He had been told about her incredible beauty, the strength in her voice and the unending list of titles she had. But somehow he did not desire her anymore: they had been delaying their wedding for years, and it was slowly vanishing in his mind. He would surely never marry his aunt — but he would be the first Targaryen to wed someone else than a dragon.

«What about Dorne?»

Aegon's determined voice cut through the noise like a dagger through silk. Everyone stopped talking, and two scores eyes stared at him. The boy glanced to his right, waiting for Jon to say something, but the griffin only frowned.

«Would you have us attack Dorne, my Prince?» Homeless Harry asked. «Your mother —»

«I do not want to raise arms against the Dornishmen», he said before the captain-general could say more. «I have not forgotten who my lady mother was, therefore I suggest that we seek allies in Dorne. I have no doubt my uncle Prince Doran will be most pleased to hear about me. If our informers can be trusted, he had sent his own son Quentyn to Meereen, but Quentyn died, burnt by Daenerys' dragons.» He paused, enjoying the sparkles of curiosity that enlightened his audience's eyes. «Daenerys refused to marry my cousin, so he made an attempt to tame one of her dragons. He was a fool, but Daenerys was even more foolish not to accept an alliance with Dorne. Now that Quentyn is dead, I doubt my uncle will be eager to talk terms with her again. That will be our chance: Doran will never deny me being Elia's son, and if he does want to avenge her, he will not hesitate to support our cause. House Martell and Dorne will be with us.»

Silence greeted his speech. Men gnawed on it, their inner self torn between the glory they would recover with this alliance and the obvious loss of time the travel to Sunspear meant. Aegon was thinking about finding something else to say to convince them, but it was surprisingly difficult... The green boy arousing the grown men with promises of a harsh journey toward a potential ally. How ridiculous was that?

As he was about to speak, Jon smashed his cup on the table, spilling wine all around him. «Aegon is right.» His fierce blue eyes ran over the audience. «We cannot wait any longer for Daenerys to turn up with her dragons. Victory will be with us if we move now. Dorne will be our destination: Doran Martell will be delighted to learn that his nephew is alive, and even more to learn it means he will not have to deal with the woman who caused his son's death.» The griffin turned to face Aegon. Could he possibly be smiling? «Our prince has more of Rhaegar in him, when Daenerys has more of Mad Aerys. The Martells will not deny it.»

Cheers echoed all over the great hall, as the boy's heart pounded wildly in his chest. He could feel the blood beating against his temples, excitement raising gooseprickles on his neck. A moment later every single man around the table was shouting his name, two scores of deep and powerful voices calling _Aegon__, __Aegon__, __King Aegon_. How was it possible that he was this boy they were all so eager to die for? Somehow he felt as if he was watching the scene with stranger eyes, and he wanted so desperately to sing along, to cheer this king-to-be. It could not be himself. He was not worth all this, not worth their lives. It could _not_ be himself.

Aegon felt a strong hand squeezing his shoulder. Jon was leaning over him, his lips curved upwards in what meant a smile for the griffin. Sparkles enlightened his blue eyes, a blend of joy and inspiration and most of all, pride. Pride in what his Yound Griff had turned out to be. Pride in the Aegon he was little by little raising to be _the_ king. The boy bit his lower lip. He felt torn between the delights of the adventures to come — long travel roads, battles, the clamor of steel against steel — and the obvious burden Jon was gradually putting on his shoulders. He wanted so dearly to keep this pride going, but could he? Would he be tasting failure sooner than he had expected? Would those blue eyes be tainted with disappointment then?

Somehow it was more than he could stand for the night. As the captains were enjoying a newly-opened cask, Aegon left the hall, half walking-half running toward the back door. When the voices became no more than whispers behind him, he rushed through the galleries, down innumerable stairs, turning around unknown corners, until finally he reached the exit. It was obviously a servant doorway, plain and massive, such a heavy thing Aegon had to smash his shoulder against to open it. The cold seized him unannounced. Then the wind came blowing along, with terrible howls and the flapping of a thousand banners. The boy walked from the door, no more than a few steps, clutching his doublet helplessly to keep the cold at bay. White mist rose with each breath and swirled quickly away. Again he walked, but faster. His steps became quicker, his heart beat wilder. By the time he reached the moat, he was not cold anymore. A strange warmth was rising inside his chest, creeping up his neck to his face, and filled his mouth whenever he breathed. It felt so comfortable, like a nest of furs or a mother's embrace would be. He didn't know about the last one, and would never... But there was no sadness in his mind right now. Right now he enjoyed the fire spreading in his lungs. Right now he wondered what it felt to be a dragon, and thought he was not far from it. Then it occurred to him: he was a Targaryen. He _was_ a dragon.

Suddenly something lightly touched his cheek. It was too short for him to understand, but it had felt cold. He looked to the pregnant sky. That was when he saw it: snow falling over the castle. Thousand snowflakes pouring without a sound, swirling along the fickle wind and melting on the muddy ground. All so very silent. All so very delicate.

It was all Aegon could do not to laugh. He laughed loudly, freely, like he had not been laughing for years. Lifting his hands over his head, he tried to catch snowflakes, but they melted between his fingers. He did not care. This moment was just too wonderful to ruin it with disappointment. He went on, laughing and running across the yard, snow gathering in his silvery hair. Had he ever feel so light and free? Free from all the responsibilities the others were so eager to give him?

A crystal-clear laughter echoed behind him. Aegon turned around abruptly, half ashamed he had been seen enjoying the newly discovered snow. But it was no stranger face: only beautiful Lemore, all clad in her white robes. The cold had turned her cheeks red, but she looked as if she did not care. Aegon smiled, and the septa smiled back, enlightening the yard with her only presence.

«I felt the same the first time I saw snow,» she said, «maybe even more excited! I ran through Oldtown until my feet hurt so much I could not walk any further. The older septas looked for me all day long, and when they did found me, I was smacked so hard I bore the marks for days. But I didn't care, I had seen snow.»

The boy opened his mouth, but found no words. He had not known about Lemore's childhood. He had always wondered what kind of past was hers, but had always been afraid to ask. And suddenly she was talking about it so freely it felt queer somehow. Did the snow moved her as much as it did him? Did it uncover memories the way a hand sweep dust from an old book? _Oldtown_. Aegon had seen it on the maps he had been studying for years, and wondered what it looked like.

«Will you take me to Oldtown when we return from Dorne?» he asked.

Somehow her face turned solemn. «It won't be necessary,» she said. «I will not be the one to take you there, for Oldtown will be yours, then. The Seven Kingdoms will be yours. A king does not ask a septa to guide him through the tortuous alleys of Oldtown.» Then her smile crept back across her lips. «Even less a septa like me.»

Aegon smiled. But sadness had settled between Lemore and him. She was — like all the others — reminding him of what awaited him in the horizon. He looked at the heavy clouds above their heads, and the snow falling lightly over Storm's End. There was no time for such untroubled moments of simple happiness. He wasn't Young Griff, enjoying fishing in the Rhoyne, training with wooden swords. Not anymore. He was Aegon VI, true heir to the Iron Throne, and every one would be reminding him of it in case he forgot himself.

_Aegon VI Targaryen, the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell_. How many men had died for his father? How many for him? How many would die to allow him through this game of thrones?

Morning came without the sun. Only a feeble light stretched through the shutters when Aegon woke up, tired and weary, with not even a memory of climbing back from the yard to his chambers. He jumped from the bed to the window, and let the light in. Down below the camp was stirring: tents were being folded, wains were being filled with weapons and sacks and casks. Men already clad in armors walked all around, shouting and rushing to get prepared in time.

Aegon did not understand immediately what it meant. The only thing he could think about was the snow the sellswords had been stamping since dawn, leaving only mud where a soft white carpet had been.

The door opened violently behind him, making him start. Jon appeared on the threshold. For a moment they both look at each other in silent and incomprehension.

«You are not ready,» the griffin said. Aegon wondered if it was a question.

«Why are the men leaving?»

«We are heading for Sunspear, my prince,» he said in a very solemn voice. Aegon hated it when Jon spoke to him this way. He considered him his father, not a liege lord... «As you suggested so wisely last night.»

The boy could not hide his surprise. He had not expected to be leaving so soon. He wanted to say something, but found nothing clever. «Alright,» he stuttered, «I... I will get prepared.»

«Fine. Join us in the yard as soon as you are ready.»

Jon vanished as quickly as he had come. Aegon sighed. His future was close, and there was no way he could escape from its embrace. The burden would soon be upon his shoulders, he knew.

He donned a woolen doublet, high riding boots and a heavy black cloak with dragon-shaped clips. It would be a long journey through the Reach, and the weather would not be clement. Somehow he wondered if it would be the same in Dorne. Did it snow in Sunspear at this very moment? He doubted it, but he had been told this winter would be like no other one. Anything could be expected...

When he stepped through the main door to the yard, there were only a few tents left where thousands had been. A young lad came closer, bowed deeply and lend him the reins of a huge black stallion. Aegon looked at the horse apprehensively, then climbed on the saddle hoping it would obey. He was afraid to look a fool atop such a beast, but he found the stallion queerly easy to ride. Spurring it lightly, he trotted to Jon and Homeless Harry supervising the departure. From the hill Storm's End was onto, they could see the road unfolding, and the men who had been leaving sooner to scout ahead. A few rays of sun stretched from behind the clouds, enlightening the grey landscape. Aegon breathed deeply, his heart bouncing inside his chest. All around him men in armor were waiting for the signal to leave, standing in lines and holding the banners of the Golden Company. It was too soon for the Targaryen banner, he knew, but the time would come when the three-headed dragon would fly above his army. The time would come when, like Nymeria, he would unleash his dragon and be called the Conqueror.


End file.
